Blood Eagle

by Craig Russell

  Wednesday 4 June, 11.50 p.m. Altona, Hamburg.

  With most of the office workers and shoppers long gone, the basement Parkhaus was almost empty of cars. The tyres of the Saab yielded a restrained screech as it took the steep sharp turn from the down ramp onto the pillared square of parking places. Instead of parking, it stopped on the main throughway; the headlamps dimmed to side lights.

  A Mercedes, which had been concealed in a parking place behind a pillar, pulled out suddenly and drove up to the Saab, stopping when the two cars were almost nose to nose. Neither could now make a quick exit. The Turks got out first, from the Mercedes. Three; heavily built. Two stood on either side of the car, leaving the doors open and resting their arms on them, using them as shields before their bodies.

  The third Turk, older and more expensively dressed than the other two, walked up to the Saab, leant down and tapped with his knuckles on the driver’s window. There was the buzz and clunk of an opening electric window.

  Then a sound like a loud pop.

  The two Turks standing by the Mercedes saw an explosive plume of blood spurt from the back of the older man’s head as the bullet, fired from inside the Saab, exited his skull. Before they could react there was a series of more loud pops, in rapid succession like hailstones hitting off a roof, this time from behind them.

  Like the older Turk, they too were dead before they hit the ground.

  Two tall men, both blond, emerged from the shadows behind the Turks’ Mercedes. As one methodically picked up the spent shells from the Parkhaus floor, the other calmly walked across to the bodies of the three Turks, firing a single conclusive shot into the head of each; again picking up the spent shells and placing them in the pocket of his thigh-length leather coat. Both men then made their way towards the Saab, simultaneously unscrewing the silencers from their Heckler and Koch semi-automatics. They casually stepped over the bodies, and climbed into the rear passenger seats of the Saab, which carefully reversed into a parking place to complete a three-point turn before driving towards the up ramp.

  Thursday 5 June, 10.00 a.m. Pöseldorf, Hamburg.

  There was now a solid, dreamless wedge of sleep between Fabel and the events of the day before; yet when he woke, a bone-aching tiredness clung to him. He dragged himself through the routine of a shave and a shower and dressing. A Hamburger Morgenpost lay on his doormat; he placed it on the hall table without opening it.

  He drank his coffee over by the picture windows, gazing blankly out over Hamburg. A steel sky clamped down on the city, sucking the colour from the water, the parks and the buildings, but a hint of rose bloom behind the clouds promised something better for later in the day. You’re somewhere out there, he thought, you’re under the same sky and you’re waiting to do it again. You can’t wait to do it again. And we can’t wait for you to make a mistake. The thought clenched in his belly like a fist.

  As Fabel stood watching the sky and sipping his coffee, he went over in his mind what they had got so far. He had the jigsaw pieces that were all supposed to fit: a corrupt ex-cop, a prostitute murdered horrifically, a previous victim, four months before, with no shared history or other connection with the second murdered girl, and an egomaniacal sociopath claiming responsibility for the murders by e-mail. But whenever Fabel tried to put the pieces together they snagged on each other. All of it made sense at front of mind, but in some dark, small room at the back of Fabel’s brain, where it was being run through a deeper wash, a little red warning light was flashing brightly.

  Fabel drained his coffee cup. He took a long deep breath, drawing in both air and the view across the Alster, then turned, picked up his jacket and his keys, and left for his office.

  From the moment he arrived in the wide foyer of the Präsidium, Fabel was aware of frenetic activity. A dozen MEK officers, grey and black wraiths clutching their goggles and helmets, trotted past him and headed out to the front where an armoured transport awaited them. He passed Buchholz and Kolski, both of whom were engaged in a conversation with one of the Schutzpolizei’s Ersten Hauptkommisars, who held a blue tactical clipboard. They both looked in Fabel’s direction and nodded briefly and grimly. Fabel nodded back; although he was desperate to know what was going on, he recognised the stern determination on their faces and decided to leave them to it. Gerd Volker, the BND man, came out of the elevator with four hard-looking men as Fabel was about to get in. Volker smiled perfunctorily, wished Fabel a good morning and swept past him before he had a chance to speak.

  When Fabel left the elevator, he met Werner in the hall of the Mordkommission.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  Werner pushed a copy of the Morgenpost, open at the appropriate page, into Fabel’s hands. ‘Ersin Ulugbay is dead. A real professional job.’

  Fabel gave a low whistle. The image in the Morgenpost showed a man in an expensive coat sprawled on the blood- and oil-stained concrete. There was nothing in the article to indicate a motive, but it stated that one of the three victims was Ersin Ulugbay, ‘a well-known figure in the Hamburg underworld’. The two other victims, both male and believed to be of Turkish origin, were yet to be identified. Fabel wasn’t surprised that he had encountered so much grim-faced activity downstairs.

  ‘Shit. There’s going to be one hell of a war out there.’

  ‘That’s what they’re all preparing for,’ Maria Klee had come alongside Fabel, a cup of coffee in her hand. She lifted the cup. ‘Want one?’ Fabel shook his head. ‘The whole Präsidium is crawling with LKA7 and BND …’ Maria gave a laugh. ‘If it wears a black leather jacket and it goes by initials, it’s here and it’s got a bee up its ass.’

  ‘I don’t know why they bother,’ shrugged Werner. ‘Let the bastards kill each other. Save us all a lot of time and hassle.’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s such a thing as crossfire, Werner –’ Fabel handed the paper back to him – ‘and crossfire and innocent passers-by seem always to come together.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I for one won’t be shedding any tears over this piece of shit.’

  Fabel moved towards his office. ‘Do you both have a minute?’

  Fabel settled behind his desk and motioned for Maria and Werner to sit down. ‘Do we have anything more on our victim from yesterday?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Maria answered. ‘I’ve done a full check, both with Hamburg and with the Bundeskriminalamt. She didn’t have any kind of criminal record. And still nothing on the bullet wound. We can’t tie her into any shootings involving women in Hamburg over the last fifteen years.’

  ‘Then widen the net.’

  ‘I’m already on it, Chef.’

  ‘Anna and Paul are managing the surveillance on Klugmann,’ said Werner. ‘So far he went straight home and has stayed in bed. Last report was the curtains were still drawn and there was no sign of life.’

  ‘Did we get anything more from any of the residents around the flat where the girl was found? Anyone mention seeing an older Slavic-looking guy?’

  ‘Who are we talking about?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Jan saw someone hanging around with the ghouls when we arrived at the murder scene,’ answered Werner.

  ‘A shortish guy, sixty, maybe older … looked foreign?’

  Both Werner and Fabel stared at Maria.

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘I arrived on the scene about fifteen minutes before you, remember? A small crowd had already gathered and he would have been a hundred metres from it, coming from the St Pauli direction. I noticed this older guy … The way I would describe him is looking a bit like Khrushchev … you know, the old Soviet president or whatever they called him … in the sixties.’

  ‘That’s the guy,’ said Fabel.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t think much about it at the time. It wasn’t as if he was fleeing the scene or anything, and the crime scene had been populated for at least an hour, so I didn’t even think of a possible perpetrator … You think he’s the killer?’

  ‘No …’ Fabel frowned. �
�I don’t know … he just seemed to stand out. It’s probably nothing. But he doesn’t belong to the area and you saw him arriving at the locus. I want to find him for elimination.’

  ‘I’ll ask around some more,’ said Werner.

  ‘I also want you to try to find out if any of the neighbours saw a policeman in the area prior to the killing. But for God’s sake be careful … I don’t want anyone to think we suspect one of our own.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maria, ‘it could be that he isn’t in uniform. Maybe he’s simply got hold of a Kriminalpolizei ID or shield.’

  ‘I know … as you say, that’s even if he is impersonating a policeman at all. But a uniform would get him unquestioned entry, probably. It’s worth a try.’

  * * *

  After Werner and Maria left his office, Fabel tried to get Mahmoot on his cell phone. A full-scale gang war was about to erupt and Fabel had sent Mahmoot out unarmed into the front line. The phone rang out until, eventually, Mahmoot’s answering service cut in.

  ‘It’s me. Phone me. And forget all about that favour I asked.’ Fabel hung up.

  Thursday 5 June, 10.00 a.m. Stadtkrankenhaus Cuxhaven.

  Max Sülberg’s uniform didn’t fit him very well. In fact, in his twenty-five-year service with the Polizei Niedersachsen, most of which had been spent at the Polizeiinspektion Cuxhaven, no uniform had ever fitted him that well. He had, in that time, slowly metamorphosed from skinny and scruffy to paunchy and scruffy. Now, his mustard-yellow short-sleeved service shirt was stretched taut around the belt line and wrinkled across the chest and back, and his uniform trousers looked as if they had had only a passing and none too recent acquaintance with an iron. He was the kind of scruffy policeman that would normally be hauled up before the boss – were it not for the two gold pips on his green and white shoulder flashes, that showed that Max was, in fact, the boss.

  He was a short, balding man with an amiable face that was well lived-in and almost always on the verge of a smile. It was a familiar and trusted face among those who lived on the low, flat lands contained by the sandy arc of the Cuxhaven coastline that swept from Berensch-Arensch to Altenbruch.

  Now, Max’s ready smile was absent, bleached from his face by the mortuary’s stark lighting. Next to him stood Dr Franz Stern, a lean, handsome physician with a thick mane of black hair who towered immaculately above the crumpled SchuPo officer. Before them, on the cold steel of a mortuary trolley, lay the smashed body of Petra Heyne, a nineteen-year-old student from Hemmoor. Max Sülberg had been a policeman for a long time and that meant, even in Cuxhaven, he had seen his fair share of death and violence. But, as he looked down at the lifeless face of a girl barely a year older than his own daughter, he felt an overpowering instinct to find a pillow, something, anything, to put beneath her head. And to say something to her. To comfort her. But she was beyond comfort. He shook his head heavily.

  ‘What a waste.’

  Stern sighed. ‘What on earth was she doing wandering about on the road, miles from anywhere?’

  ‘I can only guess. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy, but my guess is she was on some kind of drugs. The driver of the truck said she seemed totally out of it when she stepped out in front of him. There was clearly nothing he could do to avoid hitting her, but he’s having a hard time accepting that. Poor swine.’

  ‘Have the parents been notified?’ asked Stern.

  ‘They’re on their way in. She had no bag or her ID card on her, but she was wearing a medimergency bracelet.’

  Without thinking, Stern glanced at the girl’s wrist. Silly, of course, the bracelet had been taken away and stored by the police; but something caught his eye and he frowned, his black eyebrows forming a straight ridge and hooding his eyes. He leaned forward.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sülberg.

  Stern didn’t answer but turned the girl’s forearm, scrutinising the wrist. He turned his attention to her right ankle, then her left ankle before finally examining the left wrist with as much intensity.

  Sülberg gave an impatient sigh. ‘What is it, Herr Doktor Stern?’

  Stern held the girl’s wrist up.

  Sülberg shrugged. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at. I don’t see …’

  ‘Look closer.’

  Sülberg slipped his reading glasses from his uniform shirt pocket and put them on. As he leaned in to examine the girl’s wrist, his stomach lurched from the smell of the freshly dead. Then his attention was caught. There were scrapes on the skin and a very faint redness across the plain of the wrist.

  ‘It’s the same on the ankles …’ said Stern.

  ‘Shit …’ Sülberg removed his glasses. ‘She’s been tied up.’

  ‘She’s been tied up all right,’ said Stern, ‘but she hasn’t struggled much against her bonds. My guess is that she has been semi- or unconscious whilst bound. That would explain her being out of it and walking right into the path of that truck.’

  Somehow the muscles in Sülberg’s face tautened and gave it a harder look. ‘I don’t want to wait for the full autopsy, Dr Stern. I want you to draw some blood now for analysis.’

  Thursday 5 June, 12.00 p.m. Polizeipräsidium, Hamburg.

  Fabel knew from the fire in Werner’s eyes that it was something important.

  Werner had a methodical and painstaking approach to policework that contrasted with Fabel’s own, more intuitive style. Werner was all detail: Fabel was all big picture. It was this contrast that made them such a good team. The only thing that frustrated Fabel was Werner’s reluctance to open up to Maria Klee’s complementary analytical skills. And now Werner had that look that told Fabel he had been sniffing around in some small corner of the investigation and had found a scent to follow.

  ‘What’ve you got, Werner?’

  Werner sat down opposite Fabel and gave a small laugh at being so easy to read. ‘Two things. First, difficult though it is to believe, our pal Klugmann has been less than straight with us.’

  ‘You do surprise me.’

  Werner showed Fabel a print-out that looked like a phone bill without the costs, just numbers dialled and durations. ‘I got the details of Klugmann’s cell phone account …’ Werner read Fabel’s raised eyebrows. ‘It wasn’t easy.’ He tapped the beefy tip of his forefinger on an entry. ‘Look at this … he phoned this number at two-thirty-five a.m… . it’s the number for the local police. Just like he said and just like the station logged.’ Werner slid his finger down the page. ‘Now look at this. Two-twenty-two a.m… .’

  Fabel looked up from the entry and held Werner’s eyes. ‘The bastard.’

  ‘Exactly. He was on the phone for twelve minutes to that number. He must have hung up and then dialled the local police. Now who the hell do you phone before the police when you’ve just found a so-called friend sliced up like butcher-meat? Pizza delivery?’

  ‘So who is it? Whose number is it?’

  Werner leaned his broad back against the chair and tilted it slightly. ‘That’s the other thing. I have checked and double-checked through every relevant federal department, Deutsche Telekom, the cell phone operators … this number –’ he let his chair slam forward again and stabbed his finger at the entry – ‘does not exist.’

  ‘It has to exist.’

  ‘It clearly does, because Klugmann was talking to it for twelve minutes, but it is not recorded anywhere. We’re left with only one thing to do.’

  ‘You haven’t already tried?’

  ‘I thought I’d leave the honours to you, Chef.’

  Fabel picked up his cell phone and dialled. It was answered after the second ring, but no one spoke.

  Fabel waited a moment before speaking. ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’ Fabel thought he heard the sound of a breath at the other end. He was pretty sure he was connected to a cell phone. After a couple of seconds he spoke again. ‘Hello … it’s me …’ The line went dead. Fabel redialled the number. He let it ring for several minutes before hanging u
p. He turned to Werner. ‘Okay … do Anna and Paul still have Klugmann under surveillance?’

  Werner nodded.

  ‘Let’s bring him in.’

  It was more of an alley than a street. Because it was so narrow and ran east–west, and because the red sandstone buildings that lined it were never less than three storeys high, it was also gloomy. Parking was permitted only on one side of the street and Anna Wolff and Paul Lindemann’s BMW was parked halfway along. There were no other spaces available, so Fabel, with Werner in the passenger seat, had to pull in around the corner.

  Sonja Brun appeared around the corner, carrying two Aldi carrier bags, heavy with groceries. She was tall, slim, with long, bronzed legs. Her hair was dark and long, pushed back from her face by the improvised hairband of her sunglasses, which were shoved up onto the top of her head. She looked lithe and fit. Fabel thought of the comments Möller, the pathologist, had made about the second victim’s levels of fitness. Sonja was a pole-dancer at the Paradies-Tanzbar, among other things. Maybe ‘Monique’ had been a whore, after all.

  Sonja passed Fabel’s parked car, on the other side of the narrow street, and Fabel got a better look at her. She was dressed cheaply in a cropped white T-shirt that strained against her breasts and exposed her tanned midriff, a faded denim miniskirt and canvas sandals with straps that wrapped around her shapely calves. Fabel saw her face only in profile, but he could tell that she was pretty. Given different clothes she would have had a touch of class about her. She crossed the street two car lengths in front of Fabel’s car and turned into the alley. Fabel used his radio to let Anna and Paul know she was on her way.

  ‘We’ll follow her up. I’ve got clearance from the Staatsanwaltschaft prosecutor’s office to enter and arrest. When she opens the door, we go.’ He slipped his Walther from its holster and slid back the carriage to put a round in the firing chamber. He checked the red, raised safety button before reholstering. He turned to Werner. ‘Best to be careful with this one. I’m sure Klugmann won’t give us any trouble, but if he does, he’ll know how to give it.’